


Until it so desires

by MrsCaulfield



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel is angyy, Awake The Snake, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Getting Together, Light blasphemy towards the end, Love Confessions, M/M, Post GO lockdown, Top Crowley (Good Omens), but also twitter bullied me into writing this, idk how to tag this yall just wanted me to write wall sex so here goes, the sequel to GO lockdown is GO wall sex and you cannot convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: It started, as it will eventually come to an end, on a wall.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 318
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library, Top Crowley Library





	Until it so desires

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by @sheens_tardis's prompt on twitter for a bottom Aziraphale fic based on that wall sex scene from Masters of Sex S02E03 (and hoo boy, that was steamy!) This was initially gonna be a quick fuck and dash fic but I kept overthinking it and now it has (ew) plot so yeah, enjoy whatever monstrosity this resulted into lmao
> 
> Consider this my contribution to the Awake The Snake celebrations! Because I can't handle Neil's post saying that Crowley goes back to sleep AGAIN, I am DONE and so is Aziraphale in this fic!!!
> 
> And if you came here from witnessing my weeks-long struggle with this fic on twitter, I thank you very much for your support.

Aziraphale could hardly recall how it all started. _How_ it started isn’t all that significant. And when one is a timeless, eternal being, the _when_ of it isn’t important either. Though it is fair to suppose that it started at the beginning, and if not so then very quite near it. What he does know for certain, however, is _where_ it began.

It started, as it will eventually come to an end, on a wall.

A demon in soot dark robes, long ringlets of hair lit in the colour of flames, casting shadows over a celestial sword Aziraphale once held in rough and calloused hands. Golden, slitted eyes _(glinting with as much curiosity as there was mischief)_ matched in their beauty by a wide and toothy grin. Aziraphale held out his wing to shield him from the rain and he stepped close, and _there_ it began. Up on the coarse sandstone high walls of Eden.

But that was a long time ago, and they are not the same angel and demon anymore.

There isn’t much to be said about being a free agent. First and foremost, there’s the relief of it all, some sort of squeezing pressure released. The existence of a freedom previously unfathomable, followed by the hard-hitting realization that you now have far more time than you know what to do with.

But there is also the consolation that he does not need to go through it alone. The ties that Aziraphale severed, the long-held identity which he’d shed and (in spite of it all) the crippling sense of loss are all things Crowley must struggle with as well.

 _I am not the only victim here_ , Aziraphale thinks as a self-reminder. Crowley is allowed to grieve. To deal with sorrow, in his own way, in however manner he chooses.

But for the love of Someone, it’s bloody _October_.

A few months is hardly a speck of time for timeless creatures such as they. It is a bat of an eyelash, plumose grooves from a feather on smooth glass—practically nothing.

But these past few months have not been like any other. In these few months, all the books in the world have been read. All the cakes that _be_ have been made. Humanity lived on, still, in spite of everything, and will continue to thrive even with some setbacks along the way, as Aziraphale knows is their usual way. And _still_ Crowley, his love, remains asleep.

For some time, Aziraphale tried to hold back. Crowley is a grown demon, after all. He helped save Earth. Present times are difficult to witness. _(Remember the fourteenth century?)_ He is entitled to a bit of a sulk. He repeats all this in his head with months of practiced ease.

But it’s bloody _October_ and dire have the days become. It is with this resolve that he snaps his fingers, on the first of October, and is flooded by stone cold grey, miracled into the living room of Crowley’s flat. 

He’s long since given up on pretenses of decency by miracling himself out in the hallway rather than directly inside. There is no use bothering with such things. Aziraphale stops by to check on him around twice a week, ever since—well, the _when_ of it isn’t quite as clear now, but it must have been since he ran out of flour and endeavoured not to cause another shortage. He comes here to water the plants, dust the tables, dust Crowley _(the demon has taken the art of sleeping like a log to its utmost limits)_ , and generally keeps things in order as the master sleeps. Sometimes it is merely to remind himself that he still has a purpose, that there is still one person that needs him. A reminder of who he fought for and fought alongside with. A chance to spend a glimmer of his timeless time with the only person he wants to waste away any fraction of timeless time with.

And sometimes, Crowley would stir. Blearily open a pair of starlight-like eyes and acknowledge Aziraphale’s presence. They’d exchange a few— _very few_ —words, Crowley’s barely anything more than a grumble. One time, he pads across the flat to use the loo. Aziraphale’s hopes would leap up every time, but each time Crowley chooses to return to stasis, and with each passing day it becomes more difficult to convince himself that the demon still needs him around.

But today he sees, as he turns around from the spot where he spontaneously appeared, that this is not at all like any of his previous visits.

Today he finds Crowley asleep, but not cocooned in the confines of a large satin-covered bed. Today, Crowley is sleeping, his red hair mussed, mouth hanging open and arms outstretched like they are his wings and he is making a miserable attempt at hugging his living room wall.

Crowley, his love, is asleep on a _wall_.

It is a well-established fact that the Principality Aziraphale, in spite of all that has transpired, is an angel. Holy and ethereal. Radiant with ever-lasting and all-encompassing love for all of God’s creation.

In being the bearer of that love, and choosing to direct it to the humans—through all their flaws and all the tragedies they initiated—Aziraphale has shown the great durability of angelic love far better than anyone among the Heavenly ranks.

But it does not stop there. For equally are angels the embodiment of God’s love as they are of God’s wrath.

And it is yet to be seen whether Aziraphale is the best at that as well.

The angel of the flaming sword neither falters nor trembles. He makes not a single sound. One could not have detected any disturbance and yet Crowley's eyes shoot open, his fangs bared and bony fingers settling into claws to dent on concrete.

He retreats from the wall, spinning round with a sharp hiss.

"Aziraphale?" His expression shifts, climbing down levels of alertness. "Fucking heaven, I thought it was some other angel in here—"

"You left me."

Crowley's reply is too swift for his liking. "I'm right here."

"I think you and I both know that you are not."

A shiver runs down Crowley's spine. Sets alight the network of nerves in his corporeal form. Blows up his golden irises.

The demon grits his teeth, his hands balling into fists against his thighs. "Will you ssstop that?"

"Stop what?"

"This _anger_." Crowley takes a few breaths in and out, fixing Aziraphale to his spot with the bareness of a glint to his gaze. "Does things to me. Demon, y'know. And I'm getting it from you by the droves."

"Don't be ridiculous. Angels do not fall into anger."

Crowley's eyes widen by a fraction. Anger—and rage even—is underpinned by one's reckless nature. A properly infernal trait.

"This," continues Aziraphale in a mind numbingly calm tone, "my dear, is _wrath_."

It takes a moment for Crowley to regain his footing in the conversation. Carefully, he asks, "What day is it?"

"October."

" _Ah_."

"You've slept for long enough."

"I've had naps much longer, you know that."

"I am well aware!" Aziraphale's voice yields to a breaking point, releasing weight he's pent up for so long. He takes a step towards Crowley and feels a fracture opening cavities in his chest. "And _you_ do not get to throw that on me. Disappearing without so much as a note for seventy years! _You_ have no idea how that nearly destroyed me."

"Angel."

He is trembling. A fearsome flicker of emotion making out of him one fearsome creature and he grips onto Crowley's chest, wrinkling black silk in between his fingers. The feel slips against his touch, slides off and evades easily just when he thinks he's ensnared it. A guttural groan stutters past his throat, heaving a breathy exhale that fans warm over Crowley's gaping mouth.

Crowley tips his chin, peering down at him. He seems to burn with a million questions. He seems to burn with a million other emotions.

"You have no idea," he says, voice gone threateningly low, "what it's like when I went to you, after narrowly escaping extinction I _went to you._ "

No further words are needed to be said.

The terseness has not left Aziraphale and he finds himself retorting. "I wasn't gone, Crowley, I was discorp—"

"Who the fuck cares what you were, Aziraphale! I couldn't sense you. You were gone."

"I came back.”

"And d'you think after that I'd be able to leave you?"

Crowley releases a chuckle, dark as the fabric enveloping the stars. And it's a whole mess of a thing, how Aziraphale has not been able to see it before. But the pain behind that derisive tone which he adopted is now palpable in the tension quickly mounting up between them. 

It is only now that it registers to Aziraphale how close they are. His foot wedged in between Crowley's bare ones. Every sliver of movement rustles some part of their clothing against the other. His hands still themselves on Crowley's chest. Crowley makes no effort to pull away and Aziraphale's mind is lost in the sculpture-worthy angles of Crowley’s profile.

There was a time, after thwarting the end of the world and before all this mess with the virus came about, that Aziraphale hoped they were getting somewhere.

 _To the world_ , was what they said. Back then. And it did not stop there. Long nights spent musing about nothing in the bookshop. Fingers brushing over a bottle of wine passed between their hold, passing and returning, back and forth, if only to _feel_ again. Multitudes of lingering looks, of gazes surreptitiously cast but not unwelcomely received. It seemed they had been moving things along.

Until all this happened. Now Aziraphale hasn't properly spoken to Crowley in nearly six months.

He understands that Crowley must be grieving in his own way. That these things are difficult for him to witness. But it's October and Aziraphale has been terribly lonely without him. 

That is why, when given the chance, he musters up all the archness in his tone, lets this all wash over him. 

"Is that not precisely what you did anyway?"

It takes not a moment for Crowley's tight fisted grip to find Aziraphale's lapels. Barely another one more and he is flung off to the side, his back against the wall, pinned from head to toe by Crowley's weight, and it's all so familiar that he barely even registers the rage on Crowley's face.

"You idiot!" Crowley's nose bumps against his in what this time feels less due to momentum and more of a deliberate movement. Even as Crowley bares his teeth and snarls, he could do nothing but watch him. "I told you wherever you are, I'll go to you and I meant it. I _always did_ , you spoiled little thing. I came to you and saved your arse more times than I could count and asked for _nothing_ in return. I wanted to whisk you away to the bleeding _stars_. If I could keep you in my pocket, I would—you _know_ I would, so don't you dare insinuate for even a moment that I left you. To even consider that possible."

Aziraphale's breath hitches. "But it's been _months_."

"You sent me away." Crowley tilts his head in perfect serpentine motion. A brow arched as he assesses Aziraphale up close. "In May, when I offered to come to you and you sent me away."

"I didn't think it would take this long, I—"

"So what? You're here because you _misssed_ me?" Crowley laughs derisively.

Aziraphale huffs, though the action has not much of an effect so much as it only sends a gust of breath over Crowley's cheek.

"Because I haven't been able to stay away from you either," admits Aziraphale, in a gentler tone than he intended. His words slip away from him. His gaze locks onto Crowley's mouth, hovering over his own. "Why do you think I keep on coming by here?"

Crowley's jaw is set firm, unrelenting. But his stoic expression stands in sharp contrast to the softness with which his hand comes up to caress Aziraphale's hair, the pads of his fingers sweeping over Aziraphale's cheek. Perplexed and thoroughly entranced, the angel resists the urge to lean into the touch.

"I never want to let you out of my _sight_."

Aziraphale is left at a loss for words, panting from an exertion he never undertook. 

_"Please."_

The upturned corners of Crowley's mouth transition into a flattering smirk, one which lets on just a touch of demonic power. It should not have aroused him as much, but Aziraphale has conceded to _that_ battle a long time ago.

The tip of Crowley's nose grazes his jaw, skimming over each fold of his chin and leaving a hot trail of breath in its wake. Aziraphale's heart, having been nothing but an accessory to his corporation for millennia, resurfaces and stutters to life.

Crowley gives playful nips, moving to place wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck and Aziraphale offers no resistance. He can hardly believe this is all happening. Consumed only by an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around Crowley, keep him as close as could be allowed. But his hands stay firmly pressed to his sides, afraid to ruin the moment—afraid of thwarting whatever it is Crowley is trying to achieve. The demon lets out a low, appreciative hum, and Aziraphale tilts his head when Crowley plants his mouth with greater force over the very edge of his collarbone. Aziraphale inwardly curses the existence of his fully buttoned-up dress shirt, manifesting itself as an uncharacteristic groan past his lips.

The sound breaks through the spell. Crowley pulls back sharply, his features flooding with guilt. Aziraphale instantly feels the loss as a gnawing, thrashing creature deep in his gut, a pit where his heart plummets into.

"'Ziraphale, you're still angry." Crowley says through gritted teeth and it's here the angel realizes that he was trying to get him to relax. "S'not good, it's fueling my... my you know." He averts the angel’s gaze.

Aziraphale does know. His anger—no, his _wrath_ —rooted from several places, tugs at him in various ways and he feels them all at once, though he knows not how to express them. And Crowley, being a demon, is designed to seek it out in humans, to latch onto it and embolden it, get them to wield it in some way—only Aziraphale isn't a human and Aziraphale isn't just _anyone_.

His anger is fueling Crowley's lust.

"It isn't supposed to be this way." The demon runs a hand through strands of copper hair, sighing. "Let... let me at least take you to dinner first, yeah?"

He attempts a step back and fear piles up to seize Aziraphale's chest and he hooks a leg around Crowley's narrow hips, keeping him pinned in place.

Crowley is completely, utterly stunned. His growing erection twitches against Aziraphale's own. He makes a strangled sort of noise from the back of his throat, instinct making him rock his hips forward.

"My dear," Aziraphale gasps sweetly, eyes wide and staring openly at the dumbstruck demon. "We've spent quite enough time in the garden, don't you think?" He rolls his hips into Crowley's with an air of finality, eliciting a deep groan.

Crowley's hands fly off to grip his sides, caressing the heated full flesh of his stomach through his waistcoat. 

Experimentally, Crowley gives an answering grind of his hips, more certain this time. Hot sparks light up from behind the angel's lids when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure. The sound of Crowley's grunts mixes with his own sharp gasps, twining in the scant pocket of space between their mouths. They establish a rhythm, a carefully constructed balancing act not dissimilar to the push and pull of tides, and Aziraphale's thoughts drift off into blissful silence, confident in the knowledge that with Crowley wrapped around him, he is wholly and completely safe.

"If I do anything you don't like, tell me to stop," Crowley tells him and he knows—Aziraphale _knows_ this is his final warning.

Anticipation flares deep within his chest. He gives a short, almost imperceptible nod and Crowley slaps a hand over his crotch, hooking long fingers over the edge of his waistband and giving it a forceful tug. The buckle of his belt, button and fly of his trousers snap apart instantly.

"Get these _off_."

Through the deep haze of his arousal, Aziraphale hurries to push his trousers and underwear down his hips, immediately feeling Crowley's stare hone in on his thick thighs. The clothing pools at his ankles and it's a bit of an awkward maneuver to step out of them, but neither of them seem to mind.

His cock is hard and already leaking, so keen that it’s almost humiliating while Crowley, still dressed in his black silk pyjamas, takes in every inch of him. The angel's cheeks flood red with hot shame, unsure why he finds this all the more stimulating.

Crowley leans in to mouth at his jaw, gliding downwards to give special attentions to his neck. Aziraphale's pulse is racing, evidently pleased that Crowley seems to have taken a liking to that part of him. His head tilts back, resting against the concrete wall that Crowley had been sleeping on just a few minutes ago. The trail of wet lips continues down to his collar, where Crowley encounters the restricting cloth of his dress shirt and grumbles. 

Aziraphale moves to tug at his bowtie, but he is beaten when Crowley decides he isn't willing to wait as much, and with a snap of his fingers Aziraphale is bare as the day this corporation was handed to him. 

"Crowley!" He chides, flushing all the way down to the swell of his breasts, which the demon eyes hungrily. Aziraphale's instinct to cover himself takes over, his arms crossing over his chest to conceal, and this turns out to be the wrong move. With a low growl, Crowley swipes his index fingers upward and his wrists come up to pin on the space of concrete above his head, restricted by an invisible force.

There is a flicker, a beat of a moment, where Aziraphale truly starts to fear Crowley.

He looks at his demon, afraid he might encounter a hint of disgust or disappointment _(the latter, he is sure, being preferable to the first. He could make up for Crowley's disappointment with other things, but he could make no such reparations if he was to find Aziraphale simply unappealing)_.

What he sees instead is a tender look, one of pure adoration he isn't quite sure he deserves. Aziraphale wonders how he could have doubted him when this is hardly his first time witnessing it. Crowley has this way of looking at him as though Aziraphale is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's a look which has fed many of his dreams and fantasies. A look which makes him entertain the idea that Crowley might want him to the same extent that his soul has yearned for Crowley through all of time.

He allows himself to relax as much as his bound arms would allow him. He tests the restraint. He can twist his hands lightly, though they remain stuck to the wall like a magnet. His forearms are crossed over his head, crooked at the elbow to release some strain. Even like this, Crowley is still thinking of his comfort.

Aziraphale gives him a genuine soft smile. Crowley sinks down to his knees. 

Nothing on earth could have prepared him for the softness of Crowley’s cheek, the intense heat of the inside of his mouth on his cock. Crowley, ever attentive to his needs, swallows his entire length in one go, boasting a jaw whose skills no human would outmatch. Aziraphale releases a sharp cry, bucking his hips into Crowley’s mouth. The faint trace of a split tongue starts to work over his head, twisting and rolling the loose skin in a slick slide followed by carefully placed, firm caresses.

Aziraphale can hardly believe what he sees. Crowley on his knees, his handsome face twisted in concentration as he works Aziraphale into his mouth, sliding over his length, again and again and again. His thighs tremble with the ever increasing effort to hold himself up, the pit of his abdomen building up a ball of tension that sets his body aflame. A demon in perfect deference, bowing down to angelic will. 

He wants so badly to touch him, but Crowley shows no intention of freeing him from his restraint. All he could do is thrash against the wall, which feels ice cold in contrast to his bare, overheated skin.

“Crowley, dear, I—” he tries to warn him, but he reaches his peak before he gets to finish it. Crowley sucks his pulsing member and swallows diligently, popping off with one last lick to the tip of his head. 

When Crowley moves to stand back up, he uses his silk sleeve to wipe slick off his lips. 

Aziraphale lets out a whimper. He wants to pull him into a hug, to murmur into his ear, sing praises to him— _something_. Anything. 

He seeks out Crowley’s eyes. He’s been awfully quiet all throughout, and Aziraphale starts to feel uncertain.

“My dear, please. Let me touch you.” He tries not to sound like he is pleading. He is a being of light and love. He does not _beg_.

Crowley’s lips pull up into his signature smirk. “Promise me you won’t try to hide yourself this time.”

Aziraphale flushes a delicious shade of pink. “I won’t.”

Crowley makes some vague hand gesture and his arms are reclaimed to his sides. Immediately he palms Crowley’s cock, eliciting a deep moan that reverberates through all the walls of the flat, probably rattling the plants, and Aziraphale almost beams with pride. A burst of rage sweeps through him. How long could they have been doing this? He thinks as Crowley’s lids start to droop down, his lip caught in the grasp of sharpened fangs as he grinds himself into Aziraphale’s palm like a creature unleashed, raspy breaths fading into loud moans.

He looks so beautiful and, _oh_ , they could have been doing this for centuries. He could have given himself to Crowley, spared him all the pain he inflicted on the one person who has been nothing but wholly devoted to him, loved him the way he deserves—but Heaven took all that away from them. Crowley leans forward and he’s once again close. His hands grip onto Aziraphale’s back, slide down to the curve of his arse and Aziraphale’s mouth falls open, his mind heady with renewed arousal. They gasp into each other’s mouths and for the first time since the world did not end, Aziraphale feels all the rage towards every single force that ever worked to try and take Crowley away from him.

Crowley releases a groan, his hands seizing Aziraphale’s wrists and pinning them to the wall on either side of his head. His golden eyes blown wide, his breaths coming heavy, staring openly at Aziraphale as though feasting at the sight.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and his voice trembles with demonic power. “You can’t—you’re ssstill doing it!”

Aziraphale offers an apologetic smile but it comes out all wobbly. “C-can’t seem to shut it off, I’m afraid.”

Crowley wrenches his eyes shut as he is hit square in the chest by another pulse of angelic rage. When he opens them again, they show no hint of mercy.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale perks up at the sound of his voice, feels it as a tingle creeping down his spine. Crowley’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, hiking it up by the knee and winds around his waist. His other hand pushes apart Aziraphale’s cheeks, and the angel lets out a desperate whine when miraculously slicked up fingers press into his entrance.

Crowley presses inside him a few times, testing and stretching, studying his responses like some experiment. He finds the bundle of nerves that drives Aziraphale to howl with delight. He begins to fuck himself on Crowley’s fingers but even that isn’t enough.

“ _Crowley,_ ” he moans loudly, frantic brows furrowed at the amused expression on his lover’s face. “Crowley, I need—”

A kiss is placed at the top of his head and the fingers are pulled out, leaving behind a devouring sense of emptiness. Crowley pushes down the front of his pyjama bottoms.

“I know what you need.” The blunt tip of Crowley’s slick cock breaches his loosened hole.

The toes of his foot curl painfully behind Crowley’s back as the demon sheaths himself fully inside Aziraphale’s heat. It’s blinding pain, even with the lubricant, and for a few minutes Aziraphale can only press his back to the wall while he is impaled onto Crowley’s member.

He breathes deeply, waiting for the sting to die down. Crowley soothes with words murmured into his bare shoulder, soft kisses laced with compliments mouthed over flesh, telling him how gorgeous he is, how good he feels around Crowley, how _insanely_ amazing he is in every possible way.

He revels in the praise, and once he fully relaxes Crowley sets a pace, thrusting his hips upwards with increasing force that Aziraphale has to claw into his back for leverage, the foot that remains on the ground straining on bouncing tip-toes, unable to lay flat with the way Crowley pounds into him.

He is being fucked by a demon and, ironically, with each thrust he has nowhere to go but _up._

Crowley’s name on his lips sounds almost like a prayer when he sighs. They’re so close, and Aziraphale is still far from believing that they can have this now, after so long of living in denial of his deepest desires. Crowley’s eyes are drawn shut from pleasure, but Aziraphale wants to see every second, wants to commit every bit of their first time to memory. Crowley’s head tips forward and their noses bump again.

Aziraphale desperately wants to kiss him.

Crowley pulls out abruptly. The drop of pleasure wrangles with the urge to grasp onto Crowley’s hips and push him back in. 

“Turn around,” Crowley commands.

He is stunned for a moment, but he recovers quickly and flips himself over on the wall, bending slightly at the waist and presenting his backside to Crowley. He cannot resist the flood of shame that colours his face at being so exposed and vulnerable, but his unbounded trust in the demon wins out in the end, and arousal flares up in him once more when Crowley wedges his legs apart with his foot.

“Get on with it already!” Aziraphale huffs, and it almost becomes something to laugh at, only the moment is interrupted when Crowley enters him again, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust. Aziraphale screams, his palms laying flat on the wall to brace himself again.

Crowley picks up the pace quickly, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room. Aziraphale moans with each thrust. He finds that he no longer cares who might hear him. Crowley is being _good._ Making it so _good_ for him. He deserves to know just how _good_ he is at seeing to him. How _good_ he’s always been. 

Crowley kisses down Aziraphale’s back, bending at unnatural angles and Aziraphale feels every sensation of every single part of Crowley that is in contact with his skin. He never wants it to go away. The knot in his stomach builds up again, taking up more space as Crowley relentlessly thrusts into him. 

With a strangled gasp, Aziraphale finds release a second time, his cum painting listric patterns on the concrete grey wall.

Crowley starts to slow down and pull out.

“No!” He gasps, one hand reaching out to grasp Crowley’s hip behind him, pushing him back in. His tongue feels heavy in post-orgasmic haze. “D-don’t stop, Crowley, don’t you dare!”

He hears a soft chuckle from behind him and Crowley grunts and rolls his hips forward, shoving back into him. Aziraphale is trembling and overstimulated but he wants to make this good for him. He deserves to get the best of whatever Aziraphale can offer. And frankly, at this point, he doesn’t even care. Crowley can take whatever he wants.

With a few more stuttering thrusts, Crowley spills inside him, panting and moaning Aziraphale’s name. He pulses a few times, and he leans over and bites into Aziraphale’s shoulder, enough to tear the skin and draw out blood. Aziraphale yells with pain-infused pleasure. 

When they come down from their highs, Crowley pulls out, his wiry arms winding around Aziraphale’s torso, and pulls him to his chest, Aziraphale’s broad back pressed against him, the sweat on their bodies mingling.

Aziraphale sags into a boneless heap, leaning all his weight on Crowley. Crowley places more languid kisses over his neck and shoulder, his hot tongue swirling over every inch of skin he can reach. “Thank you. Angel, thank you, _thank you._ ” 

The soft kisses and murmurs drive him all the way, and the sob that Aziraphale has been suppressing since Crowley pressed him to the wall finally tears through his vocal chords. A tear spills onto his cheek, dropping to the back of Crowley’s hand spread out over his sternum. After one starts, it’s difficult to stop the rest, and Aziraphale shakes with the force of more wretched sobs tearing through him.

Crowley turns him around, fear and worry etched into the lines on his face and he thumbs away Aziraphale’s tears as they come. 

“Angel. Oh, Satan. Fuck. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

Aziraphale cups his cheeks and draws him down into a chaste kiss. Crowley, his sweet _love_ , becomes pliant, inhales sharply when their lips come into contact.

Embarrassed by his boldness, Aziraphale pulls back, sighing sadly. It might not be ideal, but he will at least have a memory of Crowley’s smooth, soft lips against his own to cherish for the future, when it inevitably gets lonely.

But Crowley lets out a needy sounding whine, a broken mess of a thing that perfectly matches with his broken sobs and leans back in for a longer, sweeter kiss. Aziraphale instantly relaxes into him. His hands settle on Crowley’s waist, while Crowley’s arms wind around his back, clinging tight as though fearing Aziraphale would walk away at any moment, and it’s ridiculous, as there’s nowhere else Aziraphale would rather be. 

Their mouths open to one another, frantic hands running into the other’s hair. Their tongues slide in sloppy, unpracticed motions, trying to get a feel of each other, equally eager to please. They kiss for what feels like hours. The soreness in his joints is forgotten. There is only Crowley’s mouth, his hands, and the continuous press of a bare wall against his back.

When at last they break apart, Aziraphale smiles lovingly at his demon.

Crowley strokes his cheek. “Think it’s time for a shower now.”

They make their way to the bathroom somehow, Crowley tugging his elbow and leading the way. Aziraphale has only seen his bathroom once, on the night they got back from Tadfield, fully aware they were about to be executed. That seems so long ago now. 

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, an array of intimate yellow lights casts over more dark grey. There is a large gold-rimmed overhead shower in a space enclosed by glass walls, extending down to black marble flooring. Aziraphale would fully appreciate it later on, when he isn’t too drunk in post-coital bliss. At the moment, Crowley has to drag him inside.

Aziraphale giggles, picking at Crowley’s shirt. “You didn’t even take off your clothes.”

Crowley grumbles and begins the process of peeling silk from his skin. “You caught me off guard.”

“ _You_ were too eager,” he teases Crowley, feeling very light-headed.

“If I recall correctly, you were begging me to fuck you.”

Aziraphale purses his lips.

Crowley turns on the shower, letting a spray of steaming hot water wash over their bodies. Aziraphale can barely manage to stand on two legs, and for a moment he fears that Crowley might want to have another go. _(Is not shower sex just the thing for most couples?)_ He’s unsure if he could manage it, the throbbing of his sore backside a painstaking reminder and he inwardly curses. He should be good for Crowley, give him whatever he wants—

But Crowley only lathers up a dollop of masculine-scented shampoo between his palms, begins to soothingly run his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. And never was there a moment when Aziraphale’s heart _thrums_ with more love for the demon. 

And he couldn’t help it. Aziraphale isn’t just an angel, isn’t just a being of love. He is a scholar, a wealth of human knowledge and history. He stopped Armageddon and survived extinction by hellfire and above all, he is a bloody _romantic_.

He leans forward and kisses Crowley desperately, taking the demon by surprise. He returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm, his hands resting on the sides of the angel’s neck.

When Crowley pulls back, a dazed grin stretches over his face. He presses their foreheads together. “What’s on your mind, my angel?”

Aziraphale shivers pleasantly. He could get used to that. Cheekily, he says, “ _’Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.’_ ”

For a moment, Crowley merely stares at him. He smiles fondly, one brow raised in question. “Quoting Scripture? At a time like this, _really?_ ”

“You have to admit it is very apt.”

Aziraphale knows, though he does not know why, that Crowley loves it when he acts ‘just enough of a bastard’. And now that they don’t bother with hiding anything, it’s made even more clear. Crowley, his love, runs a darkened gaze over his entire body—very awake and _heavily_ aroused.

Aziraphale kneels in front of him, eyes locked on Crowley’s quickly recovering dick.

“Angel, wait. You don’t have to—”

“I love you, Crowley.” The words fly off his tongue like a song, music to his ears and a burden off his chest. He gazes up at the demon and he can only imagine what he must look like right now, on his knees and on the brink of a tearful confession. The _‘I love you’_ isn’t merely just that. It is also an _‘I’m sorry I hurt you’_ as well as an _‘I’ve always wanted to be with you’_. At the same time, it also says _‘I would’ve gone with you to the stars and beyond’_ , and a deep and resounding _‘I’ll only be with you from now on’_.

Crowley, of course, understands all this perfectly.

Aziraphale rounds up his confession with an act of worship, taking the demon’s cock into his mouth. 

Crowley braces himself on the glass wall behind his back. Aziraphale hums contentedly around the heaviness of Crowley’s length on his tongue. He takes Crowley’s hand and places it firmly in his hair. Crowley gets the message. He grasps onto fluffy white strands and pushes the back of Aziraphale’s head to take in more of him.

Crowley fucks his mouth until Aziraphale is gagging on his cock, a spike of pleasure tearing through him each time. He watches Crowley’s beautiful face fall apart as he loses himself again into his thrusts and Aziraphale wants that memory imprinted on his mind. When Crowley spills his seed, Aziraphale tries to make it good by sucking him dry.

Breathing heavily, Crowley hauls him up by the arms and hugs Aziraphale to his chest and it’s a different sensation altogether. Rough and tender, soft and hard all at once. 

“Love you so much, angel. So, so much. Surely you know that.”

Aziraphale hugs him back, sighing deeply. “I suppose some part of me always knew but didn’t want to acknowledge it. It is a completely different thing to be hearing it, though.”

They finish bathing. Wrapped in fluffy robes, they walk back out to the kitchen where Aziraphale drains a glass of cool water.

Crowley seats himself on an uncomfortable-looking stool. When Aziraphale looks askance at him, he detects a hint of uncertainty tainting Crowley’s features, anxieties returning now that the haze from sex has worn off.

“What does this mean now for, you know, _us?_ ”

In response, Aziraphale shoots him a comforting smile. A part of him may always be fearful, always be watching over his shoulder for any sign of their former Head Offices meddling back into the lives they spent so long trying to achieve. But he is no longer angry. And as long as Crowley is there, he is confident there is hardly anything in the universe that could topple them.

He walks over to Crowley, settling in between his legs. “Well, I believe this means many things. But from now on, you stay with me.” He kisses the tip of Crowley’s nose, sighing happily. “I will never be out of your sight.” Another soft kiss to Crowley’s forehead and his hands plant firmly onto Aziraphale’s waist. “The humans will be fine. _Earth_ will be fine, eventually.” Several more pecks are placed onto Crowley’s mouth. “And you and I, we’ll be absolutely fine.”

Crowley sighs into the kiss, deepening it with a tilt of his head. Aziraphale undoes the knot of Crowley’s belt and opens up his robe. Quiet laughter slips past the demon’s lips. 

“Someone has quite the appetite.”

“You did say you wanted to watch me eat,” Aziraphale replies automatically, reminding him of that one phonecall from months ago.

Crowley turns a deep shade of red.

Grinning slyly, Aziraphale pulls Crowley from his seat, leading him off in the direction of the bedroom and a proper bed this time, with Crowley following happily along. 

Crowley, his love, is awake. And they are going to be fine.

Still, along the way, Aziraphale cannot resist casting a cheeky look over at the artistically strewn cum stain on the concrete wall of Crowley’s living room.

  
  
  
  
  
*****   
  
  


_[Check out this amazing artwork by @foolishprncplty based on this fic! ](https://twitter.com/foolishprncplty/status/1314610283671777280?s=20) _

**Author's Note:**

> I actually haven't written smut since I finished Tadfield's Finest last June so this was a bit tricky tbh, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. Thank you for reading! Would love to know what you think of it in the comments.


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